


Last Words

by aoxomoxoa



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Era, Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoxomoxoa/pseuds/aoxomoxoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin don't realize they're soulmates until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Words

**Author's Note:**

> 'He’s more myself  
> than I ever am.  
> Whatever our  
> souls are made of,  
> his and mine are the same.’
> 
> I got this very sad idea from this tumblr post: http://pennndragon.tumblr.com/post/118658690746/aceofultron-soulmate-au-where-instead-of-you
> 
> I also made a playlist to go along with this because I'm a giant nerd: http://8tracks.com/a-oxomoxoa/last-words
> 
> Enjoy :)

Since the day Arthur Pendragon was born, the words were written on his arm.

“Stay with me,” they read.

The words could either be his soulmate’s last words, or the last words he would ever hear as he died.

As he grew, the young Prince of Camelot often found himself anxiously contemplating his death, unusual and quite uncustomary for a boy his age. Nonetheless, he dreamed of dying a heroic death (what other kind of death for a future king?), even saving all of Albion and its people in his sacrifice. It was a boy’s imagination, a foolish fantasy that did not follow Arthur in the coming years.

Maybe the words would be said by his beautiful wife, pleading for him to stay with her in Camelot while he rode to battle, and ultimately, his death. Maybe as his wife died, perhaps in childbirth like his mother, they would be whispered in his ear as she faded away. And in her wake he would have a child, a son.

There were too many possibilities, too many outcomes, and it made Arthur’s head spin. He found himself lying awake at night, heart thudding in his ears as he speculated the different situations that may arise for those three words to be uttered. He would trace over the words thousands of times with his sword-roughened fingers, sometimes even trying to scratch them off. At one point, after his naive dreams of knights and heroic sacrifices had ended, he had tried to scrape at them with a knife, desperate to make them disappear so they would never have to come true.

His father found him sitting on the floor beside his bed, red-faced and teary-eyed as he pressed a cloth to his bloodied arm. Through the oozing blood, he still saw the bold black lettering peering though.

“It is fate, Arthur,” his father had told him sternly. “You cannot overcome fate.”

The words on his father’s arm were still as clear as they were since his first breath.

These words, his mother’s words, read “Look after him”.

Look after Arthur. That is what Uther Pendragon did. He raised his son to be the man he thought his wife would approve of. A tough, strong, and well-mannered prince.

As Uther dried his son’s tears, Arthur succumbed to the fact that his death, and these words, were imminent. And that was the day he decided he wasn’t afraid of death. At the tender age of nine he decided to not let these words rule him, to hide his extreme antipathy for soulmates and fate.

As a young man, Arthur came to covet the thought of his death, and lived each moment as if they were his last.

**________**

“Thank you”.

Those were the words written on Merlin’s arm.

But Merlin had never payed much attention to these words. He wasn’t one for dwelling over things that had not come to pass. Why waste time and energy, and quite frankly, his own sanity, for wondering what two words meant?

Merlin would find out eventually. When that time came, only then he would know, and no sooner.

As a young boy Merlin remembered being tucked into his mother’s side, a small fire crackling merrily, the flames licking the charcoaled black brick. He remembered peering at the words that lined her arm, “I cannot do this anymore.”

Merlin had never known his father, and his mother would never truly tell him anything substantial about him. He knew that he had his father’s coarse raven hair, and his strong chin. He knew that he had his courage, but also his tendencies for impulsivity. He knew that his father was special, just like Merlin, but Hunith would never elaborate.

In his childhood, Merlin’s magic had not been in control. Periodically he would wake up in the middle of the night to see his blankets floating by the ceiling. At first it frightened him but as he learned to manage it, and as it became an increasingly useful part of his life, he began to think a little bit more about the two words written on his arm. While they didn’t dominate his thoughts, the words crept into his mind, mostly when doing mindless tasks around the village, a daydream to ease his hard days at work.

As a young teen he thought he may one day be able to use his gifts for the greater good of Albion. Maybe one day he wouldn’t be stuck in Ealdor, shovelling hay with his mother, being ridiculed by his peers for being different. It was a far stretch, but he knew of a great city called Camelot that lay toward the West. Perhaps that was his calling?

He couldn’t help but think his gifts had something great in store for him. It was all fantasy, of course, but the young sorcerer’s thoughts would always shift to the words on his arm. They were part of him, after all, as well as the person those words belonged to.

Life in Ealdor wasn’t all bad, but Merlin, as tall and lankly as he was, stuck out like a sore thumb. His only friend, Will, had told him to blend in, especially since he knew about his magic, but as hard as he tried, Merlin always seemed to be the butt of jokes. When he tripped, he was called clumsy. When he did something nice, everyone was only glad he didn’t mess it up. Contrary to the words on his arm, he never got a “please” or even a friendly smile from those around him, let alone a “thank you”.

Every time he washed or got dressed the words would stare at him, mocking him, as if telling him this would be the only thank you he would ever know.

**________**

Arthur had adjusted to his new outlook on life very rapidly. To his father’s satisfaction he had become the greatest (and youngest) swordsman in Camelot’s history. He was lethal with his weapon, as throughly demonstrated at every tourney and battle fought. Arthur, as his father said, was well on his way to becoming a good king.

Good. Not great. Only good.

His father’s tyranny did not bode well with Camelot’s people, and in the nearly two decades since magic had been banned, Uther had merely created a fence. On one side was Uther and Arthur and all of their knights and statesmen. On the other side there was the old, the young, druids and sorcerers, but always so few. Some were on the fence itself, but Uther ensured they be knocked down to his own side.

It had always been like this with Arthur’s father, and while he fought physical battles on the field, he also battled within himself. He did everything to avoid becoming like his father. When those on the fence were knocked down, Arthur was there to help them up. He stood close to that fence, wary, but committed, as in all his endeavours. Uther was leagues away from that fence.

He had always respected his father but was he like him? No. He may have the same brave strength of character, or even his acute stubbornness, but no, he was not his father.

Arthur had collected his fair share of wounds, scars, and broken bones over the years. Sometimes, when he was busy tending to these marks of worthiness, he was reminded of the words. He still had the jagged scar from when he was nine, a little more than ten years ago. The flesh was ugly and shiny, the lettering slightly distorted but still those three words gazed up at him, clear and bold.

Lately, it wasn’t unusual to find Arthur tormenting a servant, or snogging a maid in the deep shadows of the castle halls. These activities helped him forget about the pressure that was on his shoulders. He was to be king someday, King Arthur of Camelot. He would wed and have children of his own, teaching his sons to be great warriors as he was, and as his father was before him.

His activities weren’t because of boredom, nor malicious intents, but rather a slow and burning anxiety he couldn’t place. It was as if he was waiting for something to happen. It felt as though he was standing at the top of a cliff, and he felt a presence behind him. The presence itself was neutral, but the unnerving impression that it could push him off at any moment permeated Arthur’s subconscious.

It made him pull at his blankets as he lay in bed, the sheets too itchy, his skin too sweaty on the humid summer night. He bade the thoughts farewell as he drifted like the dimming of day, only to be brightly present again tomorrow.

**________**

A small fire spat embers into the air as Merlin poked the burning logs with a stick. He whispered a spell that made them dance, as if they were lovers chasing a song that lay in the ashes and smoke. The sky was dark, the air around him quiet, except for the odd rustle of birds or other creatures within the underbrush. The fire kept him warm enough, and the blanket he had wrapped around himself was more for comfort than heat.

He had left Ealdor two days ago and was currently journeying for Camelot. His mother had insisted he leave his home village, much to his dismay. Tensions had been high, and people had begun to suspect something was too different about Merlin. He left reluctantly.

“There is nothing for you here, Merlin,” Hunith had said.

“I won’t leave you here by yourself,” Merlin told her, but she would not relent.

Merlin was to stay with Gaius, his “uncle”. His mother was certain Gaius could help him reign his powers and use them for good. As of late, he had begun to doubt his gifts and their purpose, but he was heading to Camelot, a city of opportunities and change. Plus, he got to live in a castle. A real castle!

The wind blew stronger and he wrapped the blanket tighter around his thin form, finally closing his heavy eyes to sleep.

As he got closer to Camelot, the air around him changed. He felt freer, like anything and everything could happen. There was potential running through his veins and he felt his pulse quicken below the words on his arm. The thought of finding a soulmate in the new city had crossed his mind. Those last words, a poignant reminder that love ends.

Merlin wondered who this soulmate might be. He hoped it was a pretty girl, maybe blonde, he did very much like blondes. She would be a servant to the royal family, or maybe a shop keeper that sold sweet perfumes.

He was beginning to feel glad to leave Ealdor behind, along with the painful memories of sharp tongues that pierced his consciousness, forever branding him an inadequate, clumsy fool. Here, in Camelot, he was a different person. He had ample opportunity to make himself new, become the man he had always wanted to be. A virtuous fighter, a wise sage who fights for the right to practice the Old Religion.

He was a dreamer, Merlin. He had the stars in his eyes and the world at his fingertips, and nothing would stop him from becoming who he wanted to be.

Until, of course, he met Arthur Pendragon.

**________**

Merlin was an odd man, and Arthur had never quite figured him out. He had odd habits, and odd traits that usually left Arthur’s head spinning. His enigmatic nature was something that irked the prince in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

One day, he would find Merlin sleeping in the armoury, boots half polished and a desultory excuse about Arthur being a “clotpole” for not giving him enough time off. The next day, he would be declaring his loyalty and making sure Arthur got everything he needed. Surely, he was a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Having Merlin as a servant for the past year was strange enough, but he was slowly starting to realize they were becoming friends, and to his horror, that Merlin was the only one he could truly confide in. He had his father, but his father wouldn’t understand some of the things he worried about.

He had also met a young girl named Guinevere. She was beautiful, even for a maidservant, though nothing could ever come of it. She always seemed to be a little too flustered, a sheen of sweat on her brow, her brown curls slightly mussed from a hard days work. Kind, gentle-hearted, but sure of herself and her beliefs, just the kind of woman Arthur wanted.

Arthur couldn’t help but think that Gwen might just be his soulmate. Of course, he and all of Albion knew they could never be together. Arthur didn’t know if Gwen even liked him back, let alone if she was his soulmate.

Would she be the one to plead with him to stay, as the words on his arm so boldly stated?

“Stay with me,” the words echoed in Arthur’s head, bouncing off the walls of his skull, reverberating until they were nothing but soft sighs inside his mind’s memory.

Now more than ever, Arthur was being prepared to become King of Camelot. He knew he wasn’t ready but that didn’t stop him from proving himself worthy at any cost. Fight-to-the-death tournament? Sure. Life-threatening battle? No problem. Travelling across the borders of Camelot on a dangerous quest? Only if there were sure to be risks involved.

Merlin seemed adamant on discouraging these “death wishes” as he called them. His words seemed cowardly but recently Arthur had seen a different side of his servant. It was rare for Merlin to actively participate in any conflict that crossed their paths, rather he took to hiding behind a tree or even Arthur and his sword, but he had a small courage in him that Arthur saw as an endearing trait.

Merlin would never hear of it, though, the lazy, tavern git that he was.

**________**

Arthur Pendragon was a clotpole. A true and utter clotpole.

It was really the only way to describe him. Merlin couldn’t think of another word for his arrogant prat of a king.

He couldn’t imagine someone saying the words written on his arm, “Stay with me.” Like anyone would want Arthur to stay. Currently, all Merlin wanted was for Arthur to stay the hell _away_.

Merlin did everything for him. He cooked, cleaned, washed, dried, and did it all day, everyday. He couldn’t help but feel as though he were an old house wife and Arthur was his negligent husband.

But Arthur was his destiny. Gaius and the Dragon had been persistent in reminding Merlin that his actions and his dedications were all for Camelot.

Yes, yes, for Camelot, for Camelot. That’s all Merlin seemed to hear lately.

One thing he didn’t hear was “thank you.” It was always “do this, Merlin, do that Merlin”, but never once did Arthur give him gratitude.

It was exhausting, and quite frankly, Merlin was frustrated. He felt stuck, unlike when he first came to the city. He thought he would be free. He thought he would be able to practice magic, and though he did so, he exercised utmost caution, fearing Uther’s keenness for executing sorcerers. Camelot was his personal hell.

And yet, it was the happiest Merlin had ever been.

Contrary to his complaining, he was happy serving the prince (for the most part), happy to be an anonymous guide, a whisper in his ear, subtly influencing Arthur to realize that magic wasn’t all bad, and those who used it were only human. He questioned Arthur, used rhetoric to prove his points and it surely would have gotten other servants killed, but not Merlin.

He was busy for most of the days and that kept his mind occupied from other things. Sure, he worried about Arthur and his apparent death-wish but he also worried about the mark on his arm.

Each time he rolled up his sleeve it was there. His temptations to magic it away were strong but he knew it probably wouldn’t work anyways. These words were woven far too deeply into the fabric of the world. They were there on every human being since birth, a testament to one’s fate, and a reminder that it is inescapable.

When Merlin wasn’t worrying about destiny and fate and meaningless words (for the time being), he was serving. He served Arthur, he served Gaius, he served Camelot. In a way, he had become the man he wanted to be, but not in the way he expected.

Merlin was a warrior, but a silent one. He was a sage, just not a particularly wise one as of yet. He was still a dreamer, a visionary, even an idealist. He wanted Arthur, as a future king, to understand, because that was the only way for magic to be reconciled. Arthur was Merlin’s hope, and he wouldn’t let Uther grind that hope into rocks and dust.

**________**

Day after day Arthur trained and counselled, month after month he listened and strived for the justice the people of Camelot deserved, and year after year he grew mentally and morally righteous. He had groomed himself to be a great leader, a renowned ruler that honoured the will of those who reigned before him.

When he finally did become king, he was ready. Though many thought against this, and indeed, many _fought_ against it also, those closest to him knew there was no one better suited to the throne. But even Arthur himself had his doubts, and these uncertainties lodged themselves into his mind, never fully eradicated.

His father’s death had impacted him greatly, but he grew accustomed to the emptiness inside him. Though he was never that close to his father, Arthur felt as though there was a part of himself that was missing. Now that Uther was gone, all the responsibility of the kingdom had fallen to Arthur, and he couldn’t say he was grateful for the power the title lent him.

He often found himself staring out the windows of his chambers, gazing into the courtyard below. His fingers traced tentatively over the words on his arm, feeling the raised edges of the scars from when he was a boy of nine.

The words had been forgotten, tucked away in the mind, only to be taken out and dusted off at any time that seemed convenient. These times tended to happen when he was alone with his thoughts, something Arthur feared intensely, and yet it was the only time he ever felt peace. That is, when he let himself feel.

Too frequently the King of Camelot was suddenly ripped from his thoughts by Merlin, or one of his knights, realizing he was transfixed on air, far away from reality. His focuses were on the kingdom, his fate, his life, his words.

“Stay with me,” they pestered him. He wished he could flick them away like a bothersome fly, but alas, they were part of his physical self.

Since his father had passed, many events had happened. Morgana had nearly torn the city to ruin, he had nearly been killed several times, and Lancelot returned, only to occupy the land of the dead once again after a heinous crime of betrayal.

He was to wed his love Guinevere in the late spring, after he had succeeded in dismantling his corrupted half-sister and scheming uncle’s plans to overtake Camelot. Arthur was also eager to forget of the events between Lancelot and Guinevere.

He was pleased to know Merlin had been loyal in times of peril. No longer was he the skinny fool Arthur had thought he was for years. Well, he could still be a fool, and he _was_ rather skinny but something in his servant had changed.

When Arthur drew Excalibur out of the stone, Merlin had been there for him, told him to believe, in Albion, and in himself. What Arthur tried so hard to struggle against, Merlin had restored. Hope, expectation, destiny.

Arthur came to realize over the years that his fate, through all the trouble and strife of their relationship, could be Guinevere. The words on his arm may yet agree as his maiden becomes his queen.

The wedding was beautiful. The sun shone through the tall windows of the throne room, and his ever faithful servant, dressed in a brilliant red, beamed up at him from the crowd. Guinevere was crowned with purple flowers in her hair, a gentle sway of stature, brown eyes bright with prospective rule, and King Arthur had found his soulmate.

**________**

Merlin’s shoulders had felt heavier as of late. There was something in the air that didn’t quite sit right with him. The atmosphere was darker, a more poignant feeling of dread, an overbearing aura that dug straight into his bones.

Gaius had always been adamant telling him it was nothing to worry about. Yet, at least. But Merlin couldn’t help but feel helpless, if not powerless, despite his magic.

The only good thing that had happened recently was his beginnings as a teacher to Arthur, after three years of his prosperous rule. Merlin had become a sort of mentor for the King of Camelot, even if Arthur himself didn’t realize it. He wished his council meant more to his master but alas Arthur would only ever see him as his foolish servant.

His dreams of being something more, of becoming a great and powerful sorcerer were not met. Of course, he was great and he was powerful, but what use were his gifts if he could never use them, especially in front of Arthur.

Arthur had been blissful for the past few years. His marriage to Gwen was going splendidly, though Merlin suspected there was something off about their relationship. Everything had felt “off” lately, as though the world had gone slightly off kilter. Merlin felt as though he was getting the brunt of this disorientation, though it could very well be his imagination playing tricks on him. He didn’t know who to trust inside Camelot, let alone inside his mind.

Each day the words on his arm got more and more bothersome. He thought he’d never meet his soulmate. Not that it was at the top of his to-do list, what with Arthur constantly getting himself into trouble. Merlin was either dealing with that, or helping an innocent citizen in peril, or gathering herbs for Gaius, or drawing baths for Guinevere. The list went on, and certainly the heavy-weighing words on his arm was not a priority. But what once was a distant problem in the future was now his reality. Merlin’s thoughts consisted of these words, day after day, as he did his tasks.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

_No thank you_ , Merlin thought bitterly.

Maybe he would never find his soulmate. Maybe these words were a hoax, nothing more than a hope to cling onto until you died, finally getting to realize that the words were in fact never words.

Maybe only good people got the satisfaction of a soulmate.

Merlin had never been particularly good. Sure, he did the right thing, but that didn’t mean it was the “good” thing to do. He killed Agravaine. Yes, he would have killed Merlin, but did that give him the right to use his powers to harm others? Merlin didn’t know. He hoped it was the “good” thing to do, but it was a fool’s hope.

Never would Merlin get to feel a woman’s body grasp his own. Never would he hold her in his arms. Never would he touch his forehead lovingly to her own, revelling in her warmth. Never would he gently cradle her face in his hands, stroke her cheek as she drifted to sleep, eyelashes grazing a pale face like finger tips to blades of grass.

No, Merlin would never get that, because maybe, just maybe, his soulmate’s fate had already been settled with the gods.

**________**

The day of the final battle arrived suddenly. Arthur had not been prepared.

Morgana was ruthless, a hurricane gone wild, a firestorm that ceased to extinguish, a thunderstorm that blindly raged. Her eyes were lightening, her voice thunder, her hair a mess of dark clouds that rained acid on her enemies.

Merlin had abandoned him in his time of need, a brush with cowardice that overpowered what Arthur thought was acute courage. No longer was Merlin the manservant he thought he was but a scared child that feigned the valour of a knight. It was completely uncharacteristic, and it formed a lump in Arthur’s chest.

Days later he had a dream. It was no ordinary dream. Merlin came to him, haloed in blue, his face lit with moonlight, dream-like, the most ethereal Arthur had ever seen him.

Merlin spoke to him, quickly and urgently. A warning, a path.

Perhaps Arthur had not been abandoned after all.

**________**

When Merlin lost his magic he thought everything else was lost, too. Camelot was on the brink of war, Arthur was most certainly in danger, and Morgana almost had the throne within her grasp. Mordred was her secret weapon.

Though he thought he had failed Arthur and the kingdom, there was once again a flicker of hope in him, a hope was presided over everything else he felt at the time, despair, desperation, desolation. And yes, a fool’s hope once again, but Merlin had been called a fool many times by his beloved king.

In the dark of the cave, and the light of the crystals that surrounded him, his will to survive was strong. His father appeared to him, telling him what, deep down, he already knew.

He was Merlin, the sea, a fortress of power that glided over rocks and sand, washing away impurities and cleansing wounds.

He was Emrys, the immortal, always living, never dying.

Merlin was magic, and magic was Merlin.

**________**

It was for him. All for him.

Merlin’s dedication, his mystery, his undying loyalty. It was all for Arthur.

It all made sense, and everything clicked into place. His servant—no, his friend—had magic. But Merlin wasn’t just a friend, was he? He was a fighter, a sage, a dreamer that guided Arthur all these years. With magic.

Briefly, he thought about his father. Uther would be furious, of course, a sorcerer ruling beside a king, but Merlin…he was more than that. Arthur had been angry at first too, but now, with a shard of sword in his side, the life draining from his very being, he was content.

No longer did he think about the kingdom, about Guinevere and his knights. No. Now all there was was Merlin. Morgana had been defeated, Mordred was slain, and peace had been brought at last. There was no Camelot, no responsibility. Just Merlin.

For years, Merlin had hidden his gifts, and seeing them play out in front of his own eyes now, it brought an overwhelming feeling of elation, despite his sagging body. In a strange way Arthur was proud of him, his tenacity, his absolute willingness to give himself to his king.

“Just hold me. Please,” Arthur whispered.

And now, as he lay in Merlin’s arms, a tender embrace with unwholesome consequences, he was happy. Though he was leaving behind a kingdom, a wife, he felt nothing but serenity.

He wanted to let Merlin know how much he appreciated his service. Arthur knew he had always been a bit harsh, but that was the way of his kingship. He wanted to make it up to him but time was running out, and he could feel his heart slowing. Arthur’s vision was blurred, but there was one thing so clear, so surreal.

Merlin’s face stared down at him, such soft blue eyes that met Arthur’s very soul. _Don't go_ , they said.

_I don’t want to go_ , Arthur thought back.

“I want to say something I’ve never said to you before,” Arthur got out, his last breath a struggle. A beat passed and Arthur looked back up at Merlin, sincerity in in his gaze. “Thank you.”

Merlin did nothing but look down at his king, an unrecognizable emotion running through his face. Arthur cradled the back of Merlin’s head as he gave a small smile, a thousand more thank you’s he could never again convey.

His hand fell as Arthur slipped out of consciousness, and in his confused state he distantly heard someone yelling his name. Gwen?

No.

Arthur opened his eyes for the last time, a blurred face surrounded by green. Everything green, so green. But now it was fading to black, the face with it.

“Hey,” the voice said.

Merlin.

“Stay with me.”

And suddenly, Arthur knew. Every moment had led to this. Every doubt, every worry he had about the marks on his arms were gone. His soulmate had been with him for years and he never knew. He always had an inkling of his fate, but what he didn’t know was that Merlin was his destiny. All those years, the yelling, the teasing, the laughing, the crying. All their thoughts, all their secrets shared. Every gaze held too long, every breath held in anticipation, every slight brush of fingers that sent jolts down his spine, pooling into the very deepest crevice of his heart.

Arthur knew.

Somehow, on the brink of his death, Arthur believed this wouldn’t be their last meeting. He would rise again, the Once and Future King. He would be rejoined by his soulmate’s side, his rightful place of belonging, in his life after life.

With this knowledge, Arthur Pendragon slipped peacefully into Avalon.

**________**

Merlin hadn't known any of this would happen. In some way he did, intuitively, but the circumstances were overwhelming. His whole life, his whole reason, the very fate he fought to protect, was gone. Everything he lived for, everything he did to keep Arthur was…gone.

He was numb after it happened, after Arthur had slipped away. His eyes had the sincerity in them that Merlin was always yearning to see, to feel, to embrace it as wholesomely as Merlin himself embraced his king in his dying breaths.

It was always a wonder, Merlin thought after the shock had subsided, what those words had meant of his arm. Now slowly fading away, the bold letters reduced to a shadowy translucent grey, Merlin glanced at them. He was sad to see them go, just as he was his king. Arthur Pendragon drifted along the water, a peaceful sleep awaiting in Avalon as his loyal servant watched on.

Not much happened after then. Merlin became a drifter, a nomad, a vagabond on the run. On the run from his memories, his pains, the moments of rare joy he would experience with Arthur, a special laugh reserved only for each other. Merlin couldn’t bare to remember how his king left him. It was bloody and horrible and sad.

But peaceful. It was peaceful, and that was the only thing keeping Merlin tied to sanity. For if he remembered that Arthur was his soulmate, his one and only, the man that knew his heart when Merlin didn’t even know it himself, it was like a sword thrust into his heart. It was an aching melancholy that persisted for years.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

The words overpowered his very thoughts and senses and frequently he found he couldn’t breathe.

More often than not Merlin found himself dreaming of his king. Those dreams were the only way to have Arthur back and not feel the agony of years spent together, but apart. In his dreams Arthur stood at a cliff. Wrapped in gold, he was a sun god on mortal territories, all yellow and white before Merlin’s eyes. The water below the cliff misted around him, little droplets clinging to his blond eyelashes, his tanned cheeks, his rosy lips. He looked like the king he was meant to be, the Arthur that Merlin always knew he would become. And as Merlin joined him on the cliff, his dream state greedy and insatiable, he knew it wouldn’t last. But he wanted to feel Arthur once again, even just touch his shoulder. A knowing hand to a troubled mind, a welcome gesture that would be accepted with gratitude.

Merlin paused as he moved, and his sun turned towards him, blinding him with hopeful desire. The figure before him did nothing as Merlin moved closer. The beads of water rolled down his face and his damp hair moved gently in the wind. Arthur’s blue eyes were gentle, like the sky of a warm summer day, his lips plush and pink.

Merlin reached up a hand to touch his soulmate, but the breeze around the cliff increased, and suddenly Arthur was gone. His hands grasped toward nothing but the sea salt that hung in the air.

It was dreams like those that startled Merlin awake. He would always be back in his bed in Camelot and thought that everything before that was a bad dream. But then he remembered he wasn’t in Camelot. It wasn’t his bed. And nothing would be as it was.

He traveled from here to there, near and far, and even farther. Many he had met, and many things he had learned, a drifter he had become.

But even through everything that had come to pass, through the faded words on his arm, Merlin had hope.

Hope was what he started with. Hope and prospect and happiness for the future. And though now he was lowly, his heart burst with those things he hadn’t had in a long time. A yearning for the story to continue, for Arthur to be reunited with Merlin in harmony and prosperity once again, and for their adventures to return.

And they would.


End file.
